THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
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me.
I cannot tell why these precautions disturb me: I see in them more of constraint than true repentance. I feel that she acts and talks as she does out of fear of displeasing me, but that, so far as she herself is concerned, she is indifferent about her behavior and would as soon talk the language of the markets as not. She cannot have acquired so quickly a knowledge of her errors. I tell you, brothers, Laurence is afraid of me: such is the result of a week of respect.
As soon as she rises, she makes a grand toilet; she runs to the looking-glass and forgets herself there for an hour. She is in haste to repair the disorders of the night. Her thin locks are let fall, showing bare places on her head; her cheeks, from which the rouge has been rubbed, are pale and faded. She knows that she no longer has her borrowed youth, and is afraid that I will notice its absence should I turn my gaze upon her. The poor girl, who has lived beneath a coat of paint, fears lest I should drive her away when I see her without it. She combs her hair laboriously, puffing out her locks and skilfully concealing the vacant spots left by those which are gone; she blackens her eyelashes, whitens her shoulders and reddens her lips. Meanwhile I keep my back turned towards her, feigning to see nothing of all this. Then, when she has painted her face and thinks herself sufficiently young and beautiful, she comes to me smilingly. She is calmer, feeling certain that she is safe. She offers herself fearlessly to my eyes. She forgets that I cannot be deceived by the pretty colors she has put on, and seems to think that when I see them I am satisfied.
I told her in plain words that I preferred fresh water to pomades and cosmetics. I even went so far as to add that I liked her premature wrinkles better than the greasy and shining mask she put on her countenance every day. She did not understand. She blushed, thinking that I was reproaching her with her ugliness, and since then she has made increased efforts not to look like herself.
Thus combed and rouged, wrapped in her blue silk dress, she drags herself from chair to chair, careless and wearied. Not daring to stir for fear of deranging a fold of her skirt, she generally remains seated the rest of the day. She crosses her hands, and, with her eyes open, falls into a sort of waking sleep. Sometimes, she rises and walks to the window; there she leans her forehead against the icy panes and resumes her doze.
She was active enough before she became my companion. The agitated life she then led gave her a feverish ardor; her idleness was noisy and joyfully accepted the rude tasks set for it. Now, sharing my calm and studious existence, she has all the laziness of peace without its gentle and regular work.
I must, before everything else, cure her of carelessness and weariness. I plainly see that she regrets the strife, confusion and excitement of her early days, but she is by nature so devoid of energy that she is afraid to regret them openly. I have told you, brothers, that she fears me. She does not fear my anger, but she stands in terror of the unknown being whom she cannot comprehend. She vaguely seizes my wishes and bows before them, ignorant of their true meaning. Hence she is circumspect in her conduct without being repentant, and remains serious and tranquil without ceasing to be idle and lazy. Hence also she thinks that she cannot refuse my esteem, and, though she is sometimes amazed at it, she never seeks to be worthy of it.
CHAPTER X.
THE EMBROIDERY STRIP.
I SUFFERED to see Laurence weighed down and languishing. I thought that toil was the great agent of redemption, and that the calm joy at the accomplishment of a task would make her forget the past. While the needle flies nimbly the heart awakes; the activity of the fingers gives to reverie a gayer and purer vivacity. A woman bent over her work has I know not what perfume of honesty. She is at peace and makes haste. Yesterday, perhaps, an erring creature, the workwoman of to-day has found again the active serenity of the innocent. Speak to her heart, it will answer you.
Laurence said she would like to be a seamstress. I desired that she should remain under my care, away from the workrooms. It seemed to me that quiet hours passed together, I inventing some story or other and she mingling her dream with the thread of her embroidery, would unite us in a gentler and deeper friendship. She accepted this idea of work as she accepts each one of my wishes, with a passive obedience, a singular mixture of indifference and resignation.
After considerable search, I discovered an aged lady who was willing to trust her with a bit of work to judge of her skill. She toiled until midnight, for I was to take home the work on the following morning. I watched her as she sewed. She seemed to be asleep; her sad expression had not left her. The needle, moving mechanically and regularly, told me that her body alone was working, her mind taking no part in the task.
The old lady pronounced the muslin badly embroidered; she declared to me that it was the work of a poor embroiderer, and that I never could find any one who would be satisfied with such long stitches and so little grace. I had feared this. The poor girl, having possessed jewels at fifteen, could not have had much experience with the needle. Fortunately, I sought in her work the slow cure of her heart, and not the skill of her fingers or the profit of her toil. In order not to give her back to idleness by imposing upon her a task myself, I resolved to hide from her the discouraging refusal of the old lady to employ her further.
I bought a stamped embroidery strip as I walked home. On entering, I told her that her work had given satisfaction and that she had been entrusted with more. Then, I handed her the few sous I had left, telling her I had received them as her pay. I knew that on the morrow, perhaps, I could not repeat this, and I regretted it. I desired to make her love the savor of bread honestly earned.
Laurence took the money without disturbing herself about the evening meal. She hastened away to purchase a row of velvet-covered buttons for her blue dress, which was already tom and stained. Never had I seen her so active; a quarter of an hour sufficed for her to sew on these buttons. She made a grand toilet, then admired herself. When night came on, she was still walking back and forth in the chamber, looking at her new buttons. As I lighted the lamp, I told her gently to go to work. She did not seem to understand me. I repeated my words, and then she sat down roughly, angrily seizing the embroidery strip. My heart was filled with sorrow.
“Laurence,” said I, “it is not my wish to force you to work; put aside your needle, if you feel inclined to do nothing. I have not the right to impose a task upon you. You are free to be good or bad.”
“No, no,” she replied, “you want me to toil like a slave. I understand that I must pay for my food and my share of the rent. I might even pay your part, too, by working later at night.”
“Laurence!” cried I, sadly. “Go, poor girl, and be happy. You shall not touch a needle again. Give me that embroidery strip.”
And I threw the muslin into the fire. I saw it burn, regretting my hastiness. I had been unable to control my anguish, and was overwhelmed at the thought that Laurence was escaping from me. I had restored her to idleness. I trembled as I thought of the outrageous accusation she had made against me — that I wanted the money she might earn; I realized that it was no longer possible for me to advise her to work.
So, it was all over; a single outburst on her part had sufficed to make me withdraw from her the means of redemption.
Laurence was not in the least surprised at my sudden rage. I have told you that she more readily accepts anger than affection. She even smiled at conquering what she called my weariness. Then she crossed her hands, happy in her idleness.
As I stirred the warm cinders on the hearth, I sadly asked myself what word, what sentiment, could awaken her stupefied soul! I was horror-stricken that I had not yet been able to restore to her the innocence of her childhood. I would have preferred her ignorant, eager to know. I was filled with despair at this sad indifference, this night satisfied with its gloom, and so dense that it refused to admit the light. Vainly had I knocked at Laurence’s heart: no answer had been returned to me. I was tempted to believe that death had passed over it and had dried up all its fibres. But a single quiver and I should have thought the girl saved.
But what was to be done with this nothingness, this desolated creature, this insensible marble which affection could not animate? Statues frighten me: they stare without seeing and have no intellect